Adieu
by Kiru Banzai
Summary: FINALLY! Exactly what you've been waiting for--a JetSpike that pulls no punches, with none of that touchy-feely crap about feelings. Just booze, suicidal tendencies, and pure, unadulterated angst.
1. After Midnight

Disclaimer & Notes: This is a story about Jet and Spike. It does not have a happy ending. If you are looking for sweetness and light and true love and puppy dogs and things of that nature, you'll enjoy my other fic, "Spike Lives: A Cautionary Tale." Lots of hot Faye-on-Spike action in there. And I do mean hot.  
With that shameless (not to mention misleading) plug aside, here it is.  
  
* * *  
  
Jet was dreaming about fish when something caught hold and pulled him to the surface. And there was Spike in front of him, in nothing but his skivvies, no expression on his face.  
  
"Spike...what?" His habitual growl was hard to muster so soon after waking.   
  
"I'm cold." He made no movement.   
  
Jet sat up, coming more fully awake as he took the gauge of the situation. "I can turn the heat up, if you'd like--"  
  
"That's not what I meant." He put his hand on the bed, inches from Jet's thigh.   
  
It was all a little direct for Jet, who preferred his women demure and chaste, and his friends steady and predictable. "It's late." Spike didn't take his hand away. Jet sighed. "Sit down."  
  
Spike did. He leaned against the larger man and rested his head on Jet's broad shoulder. It was an odd display of tenderness, particularly for Spike, who typically displayed all the sensitivity of a brick. Jet smelled liquor.  
"Have you been drinking?"  
  
Spike laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. "Have I ever not been drinking?" He wrapped an arm around Jet's neck and leaned in to kiss him.   
  
Jet pushed him away and stood. "You're drunk. You're going back to your quarters to sleep it off."  
  
Spike lay on the bunk, staring bitterly up at Jet. Finally he sighed and looked away. "Yeah. That's okay. I just thought you might be there for me when I needed you."  
  
Jet folded his arms. He was immune to such an obvious guilt trip. Such an obvious ploy that Spike must be desperate. To come here so late, he must be hurting bad. He looked tired, worn, like he needed someone to take care of him.   
  
Spike pounded the final nail. "Please, Jet," he whispered. "Let me stay with you tonight."  
  
Jet was lost. He closed his eyes as he buried himself in Spike's arms.   
  
A sea of stars glittered and scintillated outside. The Bebop slid through them, dwarfed into insignificance, a tiny fish in an endless ocean. 


	2. And I Know By Your Smile

The next day did not dawn. In space there is no morning sun. But there are morning sounds--Ed singing to herself and everyone else, Faye yelling at Ein, who barks back, and it was to this that Jet woke. He was alone. Cursing himself mildly for hoping otherwise, he went into the main room to find Spike stretched out on the couch. "Morning, Spike. Sleep well?"  
  
Spike ignored him rabidly, choosing instead to lavish his attentions on the opposite wall. Jet shrugged this off and headed towards the fridge, where Faye and Ein congregated, waiting for their breakfast.   
  
"It's about time you're up. I'm starving!"  
  
"Some of us need our beauty sleep," growled Jet.  
  
"*I* didn't get any sleep. Do you know why?"  
  
"Not only that, but I don't care."  
  
"Because, Jet, SOMEone felt they had to spend the night pounding against my wall. Couldn't spend it sleeping like normal people. No, it had to be pounding. Pounding and pounding and pounding."  
  
Jet snuck a guilty glance at Spike, who was gone.   
  
Faye sighed theatrically. "Are you making breakfast or what?"  
  
"Yeah, yeah."  
  
The blue flame of the burners was calming, almost hypnotic. The skillet blossomed from black to deep orange, and oil danced on its surface. He was frying the eggs and Spike had looked hurt. Distant. The rice was boiling on the stove. Spike's eyes were two different colors.   
  
"Jet, that's burning!" Faye's shrill cry woke him. He dumped the mess in a bowl and handed it to her before turning on his heel and heading to the hangar.   
  
Spike was there, as usual, wedged under the Swordfish II with a screwdriver and a crescent wrench. He did not acknowledge Jet's presence. Jet cleared his throat. "That ship's running as well as you could want."  
  
Spike said nothing. He dropped the wrench and picked up a smaller one.   
  
"Why don't you give it a rest?"  
  
No response.  
  
"Maybe join the rest of us in the civilized art of conversation..." Jet let an angry edge creep into his voice.   
  
Spike rolled out from under the ship and fixed Jet with his gaze. "You wanna talk? Talk."  
  
Jet faltered. "I'm thinking about...about last night. And I wanted to know if you needed anything."  
  
"I'm fine." He rolled himself back underneath, obscuring his face.   
  
"I don't think you are."  
  
"Go away."  
  
Jet crossed his arms. "I'm not going to go away."  
  
Spike rolled himself out and stood up. He tossed the wrench over his shoulder; it cleared the ship and rang a jangling tone on the floor on the other side. He pushed past Jet and disappeared into the main part of the ship.   
  
Jet yelled after him. "HEY! SPIKE!"  
  
An answering yell came from the kitchen. "I'm not eating this, you know! I expect another breakfast!"  
  
"Ed wants pancakes!"  
  
Jet sighed and headed back to the kitchen.   
  
The rest of the day was notably lacking in Spike's presence, at least for Jet. There was a kind of nervous tension in the air, more even than the usual ship's climate between bounties. Finally, Jet came across Spike sitting in the slowly rotating circular hallway between the two halves of the ship. Spike startled at Jet's approach, then looked down, guilty.   
  
"Why are you avoiding me?"  
  
"Shit. You noticed."  
  
"You could have been less obvious." Jet folded his arms.   
  
Spike ran one hand through his hair and sighed. "Look...it was a mistake, okay? That's all."  
  
Jet laughed. "What, you mistook me for Faye?"  
  
"It was very dark."  
  
"Or maybe you were looking for Ed."  
  
"Really, really dark."  
  
"But, for my money, you were most likely looking for Ein."  
  
"Hey, you're both equally hairy." He smiled. Then, like someone extinguishing a light, the smile vanished from his face, and he was serious again. "It was a mistake. Nothing more." Spike got up and walked off, well aware of Jet's eyes on his back.   
  
* * *  
  
Later that night, Spike lay in his bed, unable to sleep. A sound at the door made him turn his head, and there was Jet.   
"I got cold," he whispered.  
Nothing more remained to be said. 


	3. I'll Tell You I Understand

Spike came in from the world, exhausted, cold. Leg work was hard. Faye was off somewhere spending their money, and Ed was exploring the bowels of the ship, no doubt with Ein barking along at her heels. Spike snagged an ottoman to sit on and yelled, "Jet, feed me!"  
  
Jet popped his head out from behind the fridge. "Where's the money?"  
  
Spike patted his chest. "Safely locked away where no meddling women can get at it. It's food time."  
  
"How much was it?"  
  
"You know what goes well with tales of money and daring escapes, is food."  
  
"How much?"  
  
Spike rotated on his ottoman to look Jet full in the face. "I'm not going to get any food, am I?"  
  
"I swear, you're just like Ein. How much?"  
  
Spike sighed. "Five."  
  
"Million?"  
  
"Thousand."  
  
"Spike, that's not even enough for the fuel we spent getting here..."  
  
"I know that." He raked his hands through his hair. "Don't you think I know that?"  
  
Jet fell silent. Wordlessly, he turned on the burner. Spike came and sat down on the stairs by the kitchen. Jet cooked, and Spike gazed into space. The sound of chopping onions lulled them both into a silent trance. Spike stared into his palm, tracing the lines with his thumb. Finally, he spoke. "Hey Jet, you ever eat matzoh ball soup?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Yeah, neither did I."  
  
Jet sensed that Spike was trying to broach some delicate subject, and was tactfully silent. Spike struggled for it.   
  
"My dad once said he practically lived on it when he was a kid. But I never tasted it."  
  
It was the first time Spike had mentioned any aspect of his past in Jet's presence.   
  
"I always thought that was weird, that something that was so, so central to him was just...nonexistent in my life."  
  
"Well, times change."  
  
It wasn't exactly what Spike had been wanting to hear from Jet, and his face showed it. Silence prevailed for another few minutes.   
  
"What was your father like?" asked Jet, trying to mend the gap that had suddenly appeared between them.  
  
"I don't know. He left when I was six."  
  
Another long silence. Jet tipped the wok and poured his confection onto a plate. Spike reached out and Jet placed the plate in his hands, gently brushing Spike's fingers with his own. Spike grabbed a pair of chopsticks and dug in. He ate without stopping or speaking, until the plate was empty. He set it on the stair and stood. Jet, who had watched this entire operation without a word, had one parting shot: "Not everyone leaves, you know."  
  
Spike didn't answer. He just looked at the floor, then turned and went out of the room through the corridor. 


	4. Moments Turned To Hours

"Where have you been?"  
  
Spike was drenched. The bouquet of roses hung limply from his hand, forgotten and irrelevant in his private reverie. He exhaled long and leaned against the wall of the Bebop.   
  
"Someone bought out the bar."  
  
"What? Where've you *been*?" Jet rose from his seat in the middle of the room, but did not advance closer to Spike. Tension was in his face and writ through the line of his shoulders and back. He had been waiting for hours.   
  
"They changed the name. The sign."  
  
"You're dripping on the floor. Why did you buy flowers?"  
  
Spike fingered one of the roses idly. "Inside...it was different. They tore out the booths and put in a dance floor...the place was full of kids."  
  
"We can't even afford FOOD and you buy FLOWERS? What are you, Faye?" Jet turned angrily and sat, his back to Spike. He drew a long, shaky breath. "You could have called."  
  
Spike slid down the wall into a sitting position. "I used to spend all my time there," he remarked.   
  
"You just don't get it, do you," remarked Jet, gesturing angrily.   
  
"We used to play pool in the basement."  
  
"None of you seem to realize that I can't leave here."   
  
"That was where I met," Spike stumbled, tripping over words unfamiliar to his tongue these three years, "--where she and I--where we met."   
  
"You can go off running around wherever you want, but I have to stay with the ship." Jet fingered the joint of his metal elbow. "Like I'm just another interchangeable part."  
  
Spike hit the wall, hard, with his closed fist, garnering a resounding clang. "And they turned it into a fucking rave for bored rich kids!"   
  
"And I do this, not for the money, not for the appreciation I get, but because it's my responsibility. Do you understand responsibility, Spike? I got this ship, and now I have to take care of it. No matter what." He folded his arms around his shoulders, a bird putting away its wings.  
  
Spike was silent for a long time. Finally he spoke, in hushed, painful tones. "Why can't things just stay the same? Just for a little while longer?"  
  
Jet turned and gave him a long, searching look. "You want something to drink?"  
  
"No. Thanks." Spike pulled a cigarette from his pocket and patted himself for his lighter. Jet's mouth twisted.   
  
"I don't want you smoking in here anymore. The whole ship stinks."  
  
Spike gave him an are-you-serious look, unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. "Fine. I'll go outside." He dropped the bunch of roses on the floor and left.  
  
Jet sighed and crossed the room to pick up after Spike. Another mess. The roses were as soaked as he was, puddling water on the floor. They were red. Waste of money, if you ask him. What use is a cut flower, anyway? What a symbol of affection: a dying, decaying plant that manages to counterfeit life for a few days before being consigned to the compost heap. Just another reminder that nothing lasts. Jet picked them up and held them over the garbage disposal. He paused a moment, then turned with a sigh, carrying the roses with him to his bonsai garden. He'd keep them just a little while longer. 


	5. Dancing With Myself

Spike pulled open the drawer with practiced fluidity. Inside were three squarish bottles, two empty, the third half full of an amber-colored liquid. Spike took the bottle and debated whether or not he'd need a glass as a middleman. Eventually, expedient intoxication took precedence over decorum, and he sat on the cot and drank straight from the bottle.  
  
Certain things had been making themselves known to Spike recently. First and foremost was the knowledge that Jet saw the time they spent together as more than simple fooling around, more than a basic need, filled. Secondarily, he was begining to realize, so did he.  
  
Spike had no illusions about his life. He knew that the time he was living on was, at best, borrowed, much more likely stolen from someone who deserved it more. A flash of blonde hair and a memory of rain descended on him, then. He was having more trouble keeping the memories away these days. Another pull from the bottle. Spike paced the room, arguing with the voices in his head.  
  
It's getting out of hand.  
_It's not a serious thing. He knows that._  
So how many nights have you spent with this non-serious thing?  
_He knows I don't really like him...like that._  
Sure.  
_I don't!_  
Then why are you still--  
_It's nothing. It's just because there wasn't anyone else._  
What about Faye?  
_**Faye** can burp the alphabet. Without drinking beforehand. I'm not down that low..._  
Aren't you?  
_...Anyway I'm leaving soon._  
Does he know that?  
_He has to. Look at me. I don't belong here. I'm just coasting._  
He loves you, you know.  
_He doesn't. He couldn't._  
He does. And you'll be gone soon. And he's just another piece of human wreckage you'll leave in your wake.  
_No. I'll stop it. I'll make him stop. I'll make him stop loving me._  
  
_I'll let him down easy._  
  
This resolved, Spike set the empty bottle down and lay on his stomach, ensuring that he wouldn't choke on his own vomit during the night. After all, he reflected as he passed out, he had found a better way to die. 


End file.
